The Liberation of Alice Love(2)
Author: Abby McDonald

All eyes seemed to slide toward Saskia, standing beside the reception computer in a ruffle-necked blouse and pencil skirt. “I didn’t know it would do that!” she protested immediately, blue eyes wide with innocence under flame-red ringlets. “I was just downloading a file. For research!”

“Downloading?” Vivienne finally spoke up. Her face was pale as always beneath a severe dyed-black bob; petite figure swathed in a voluminous black pashmina and trailing ropes of pearls.

“A film.” Saskia’s voice faltered, as if she realized the gravity of the situation for the first time. “No Hope…And Then Death. It’s Russian.”

Of course it was.

Alice was about to escape them all and wait for the cavalry of the IT call-out man when she was gripped by a terrible fear. “You did back up the database though, didn’t you, Saskia? Every night, like we talked about?”

Saskia flushed.

Alice closed her eyes for a second. “When was the last time?” she looked at the girl, pleading. “Last week? Tell me you backed up before the weekend, at least.”

Saskia bit her lip. “There were just so many new things to learn! I was meaning to ask someone…”

Alice gulped, as the full extent of the damage finally became clear. Months of records, lost!

“Well, what’s done is done.” Vivienne clapped her hands together, suddenly roused from her fluster. As Alice watched, Vivienne’s gaze slid over the incompetent intern, ruined system, and room full of disgruntled staff as if they didn’t exist. “Ah, Rupert,” she brightened. “Wonderful timing. How about that lunch?”

“Now?” Alice couldn’t help but question.

“Of course, dear. Nothing I can do! You can deal with it, I’m sure. You always do.” Pulling a black cape off the coat stand and tossing it over her shoulders, Vivienne sailed past. Rupert sent Alice an apologetic look, but—like everyone—was powerless in Vivienne’s clutches. “I’ll be back later…” Vivienne looked around. “Perhaps.” Then she was gone, in a cloud of avoidance and heavy Chanel perfume.

***

Alice spent the rest of the morning patiently hoisting boxes out of storage. As the company lawyer, she knew it wasn’t exactly in her job description to do anything other than construct dense, watertight contracts for Vivienne (and find imaginative ways to pick apart the dense, watertight contracts of everyone else), but Alice had realized soon after joining the agency that details were not Vivienne’s strong point. No, too often, it was left to Alice to wrangle things into some semblance of order, but she didn’t mind. She’d always been the one to corral things into their place, be it her hopelessly impractical father, wayward friends, or a room full of old client records. There was a certain satisfaction to it, she found: a quiet moment of calm carved out of the ongoing chaos.

With the sleeves of her pale silk blouse rolled up, and a particularly rousing Prokofiev sonata playing, Alice had almost finished restoring order when her mobile began to ring. She scooped it from the depths of her handbag, smiling as she saw the caller ID.

“Let me guess, the dragon lady has gone?” Alice shoved a box out of the way and sank down on her threadbare rug.

“Just left for a meeting. Can’t you hear the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus?” Ella laughed. “Or should it be that song from The Wizard of Oz? ‘Ding, dong, the witch is dead!’” she hummed happily. “So, sneak out and meet me for a late lunch? I’ve got a couple of hours, at least.”

Alice sighed. “I don’t think so. I have to wait for the IT guy.”

“But you have darling Saskia for that stuff! Come on,” Ella wheedled. “Help me enjoy my precious freedom. We could go to that Italian place, the one with the cream cakes…”

“Well…” Alice wavered.

“And didn’t you say you need an outfit for Flora’s anniversary?” Ella reminded her. “We could do both. There—efficient enough for you?”

Alice grinned. “OK, OK. Meet you in twenty minutes?”

“Done!”

***

They ate virtuous salads to balance out the indulgencies of dessert, squeezed into a corner of the tiny restaurant with the waiters yelling orders over their heads—and flirting shamelessly at every opportunity.

“That kid was in love with you,” Alice teased, as they emerged into the sunshine. “How many water refills did you need?”

“He was just trying to stare down my top, little pervert.” Ella grinned. “But I scored with the guy at the register, see?” She tried to pass a handful of complimentary chocolates, but Alice waved them away, groaning.

“How can you manage anymore? That cake was enough to feed four, at least!”

“Lightweight.” Ella popped one in her mouth. “It’s in my genes, I think. My mum’s family were Italian, way back,” she mused. “So I inherited the ability to eat my body weight in pasta. I would have preferred to look like Sophia Loren, though.”

Alice laughed. “I know, the exotic genes passed me by, too. My dad practically came out of the womb in tweed and Wellington boots. And my mother…” She paused, suddenly remembering the flash of red lipstick, the hair set in perfect curls, even to go to the village post office. “She was American. Is, I guess.” A group of teenage shoppers pushed between them, so Alice waited before continuing. “But Dad and Jasmine, they’re practically poster children for the joys of rural life right now. He spent twenty minutes on the phone the other day, telling me about his plans for the greenhouse.”

“Are they coming up for Flora’s party?”

“I’m not sure.” Alice sighed at the mention of her wisp of a stepsister.

Ella looked over. “Aw, I’m sorry I can’t be there for backup. Save you from the sight of them swooning all over each other.”

“It’s fine. Or, at least, it will be, when I figure out what on earth to wear,” Alice added, linking her arm through Ella’s. “You know how much I hate shopping.”

“Then you’re lucky it’s my specialist subject.” Ella steered her into the shop.

Ella wasn’t exaggerating. Somehow, she’d been blessed with the skills Alice sorely lacked, and under her watchful eye, outfits were assembled as if they’d been pulled from the pages of a glossy magazine. She never wore anything daring herself, Alice noticed, but there was always a statement necklace or pair of swooping earrings that lifted Ella’s conservative wardrobe and mid-length brown hair to something fashion-worthy. Alice flicked through the style pages, yet somehow never quite managed to translate those spurious commandments that tribal (or futuristic, or biker chic) were “in” to her own reassuringly neutral wardrobe.